


The Vagabond and his rage

by DeathandDespairQueen



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fables - Freeform, Fake AH Crew, This was originally an English assignment that I ran too far with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8691607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathandDespairQueen/pseuds/DeathandDespairQueen
Summary: A short fable based loosely on the Fake AH Crew





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was an english assignment that I had to do and literally no one stopped me from turning it into this

In a bustling city far away from here, a city by the sea and swarming with life of all kinds, a single gang reigned supreme. A master Marksman, a Wild Card with a penchant for explosions, a crafty  getaway Driver, and The Vagabond. Now The Vagabond could only be described as startling at best and absolutely bone shakingly terrifying at worst. No one had ever had the honor of seeing what the Vagabond truly looked like underneath his black skull shaped mask. Not even his own gang members. Once in awhile one might see a glimpse of blond hair brushing the color of his track jacket, or the piercing gaze just beneath his mask. But only if you were lucky enough to survive it.

The whole gang was known for their crimes, but none so notorious as The Vagabond’s wrath. Often known to partake in sprees of senseless violence sometimes with other gangs, sometimes with police, and sometimes with the innocent citizens. The city would hope and pray for The Vagabond’s murder breaks to come swiftly and for the next to last longer and longer each time. But of course their prayers went unanswered. Until one fateful day. 

The Marksman had predicted an attack on their territory. When it came to sight, he was never off. So The Vagabond waited till dusk came down on the great city before he loaded his pockets with pistols and daggers and set out to the very edge of his self-claimed kingdom. Each shadow was a threat on his domain and he refused to let it come to fruition. Most bandits turned away at the sight of The Vagabond, a few would take a few brave steps before bolting back to safety, and even fewer met a swift end from a well placed bullet. 

Dawn began approaching and the attacks seemed to die out. The Vagabond was tired, could barely see past the holes in his mask. Then he heard it. A rustle and then a crash followed by a quiet string of curses. His heart jumped in his chest as he assumed the worst. Another attack, right when he seemed to be at his weakest. He turned and aimed, firing one shot into the air. It was followed by a cry of pain and a thud. The shot wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to immobilize his target for the time being. He stalked closer and pulled off his mask. Through bleary eyes his victim became clearer as he approached.

The Vagabond stopped dead. The getaway Driver lay clutching his shoulder, hissing with pain. In all his years of crime, The Vagabond had never harmed one of his own crew. And frankly, the thought terrified him. He had always made empty threats of turning his unbridled rage on his friends, but over time they had began to realize how untrue his words were. How kind the masked man could be. But here the Driver lay, bleeding from the work of his trusted friend. They would never trust him again. 

As he hauled the Driver into the hideout and set to dressing his wounds he vowed to never lose himself like he had that night. If he could help it, he would never unleash his wrath again. His crewmates cried “But how will we survive?” and The Vagabond replied “There’s more to me than a trail of bodies. I can rule this city without spilling blood.” And for a long time, he did. The innocent citizens rejoiced as the peaceful days dragged into weeks, and then to months. Rumors spread that the whole crew had been wiped out, while others said they had simply moved on to terrorize another city. Some said The Vagabond himself had died, and many had believed this to be true. But a few believed that if you were to roam the streets in the dead of night, you could see him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike again. 

Naturally, the gossip fell on the ears of rival gangs. They saw their opportunity to take the crown and they plotted. They sent threats in every way possible, but The Vagabond did not respond. Any attackers would be taken out by the Marksman or the Wild Card, thus proving that The Vagabond himself need not unleash his wrath to maintain his control. For the time being. 

Behind his back his crew members had been plotting. “We’ve been doing all the dirty work,” said the Wild Card, “So why should we continue to bow? We’ve proved we don’t need him or his so-called strength to hold our crowns firm to our heads. I say we band together and take out the weak link we once called our King.” 

The Marksman and the Driver pondered the sentiment. They loved their luxurious life and the safety that siding with The Vagabond had provided for them, but the Wild Card had a point. The Vagabond had made it quite clear that he would not unleash his fury upon them, and they believed his months out of commission had made him soft. So they conceived a plan so devilish that The Vagabond himself would have been proud.

They waited until the dead of night, while their leader was out on patrol. Defenseless, having left all of his weapons locked away months ago. Still, none dared to seize their realm from under his feet. This made the night drag on, and the traitors assumed this would lull The Vagabond into sleep. “When he dozes off the Driver will hold him down. Then you, the Marksman, will fire no more than three shots. When The Vagabond is good and dead, we take our shares of our fortune and I’ll flip the switch. By the time the police arrive our hideout will be nothing but ash and our legacies will live on as ghosts.” They all shook hands on their heinous pact and set their plan into action. 

Though, unbeknownst to them, The Vagabond hardly fell victim to premature sleep. He had spent many a night wide awake, even as a boy. True he did grow weary, but hardly ever let himself doze off on a job. That was their first mistake. When the Driver went to hold him down, The Vagabond was launched into a panic. Though his mask he had no peripheral vision, so he could not see the “friendly” face. He flung the attacker to the ground and pinned him there with a steel toed boot. The Marksman, seeing that the plan was already misfiring, abandoned his station and rushed to help the Driver. The Vagabond heard the approaching footfalls and felt rage boiling in his gut. Had months of him staying in the shadows not shown these people that he no longer wished to harm anyone? The familiar burn of rage was crawling into his skin once more. His hand shot out and he shoved the Marksman away without even a glance.

As his rage bubbled and reformed the Wild Card took his chances. With a gun in hand he approached the rage blinded Vagabond and took aim. Of course, it would be wise to mention that while the Wild Card was devious, he was not always wise. Or, for that matter, a steady shot. 

His hands shook with nerves as his finger twitched on the trigger. The bullet fired and missed, merely grazing it’s target. This left The Vagabond seeing red. He no longer cared who was attacking, no longer cared that he had sworn off this kind of violence. He grabbed a metal pipe that had long since been discarded by its original wielder and let his wrath flow through his veins once more. He didn’t see who or what he was annihilating, only heard telltale sounds of bones snapping and flesh tearing as one by one he beat the assailants into the Earth. 

With each of them dead, his fury slowly flooded out of him, and through the holes in his mask he could finally see their faces clearly. His blood that had once boiled with rage now ran cold at the sight of his friends bludgeoned by his own hands. When the realization set in, he dropped to his knees and screamed. 

No one is quite sure how the authorities heard of the tragedy. Perhaps a passerby witnessed the carnage. Perhaps The Vagabond himself made the call. But when they arrived, all four were long dead. The Marksman, the Wild Card, and the Driver all bludgeoned nearly beyond recognition. And The Vagabond, pistol clutched tightly in his hands, with a bullet through his head, done in by his own hands. 

Thus ended their terrible reign, and the citizens once again felt safe in their homes. And even in the grave The Vagabond’s lesson rang in the minds of all who tried to conquer the great city. 

**Bottling up your rage will only make it stronger when it is finally unleashed**


End file.
